


Picturesque Image of Fatherhood

by Violencio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Backstory, Bittersweet, Bullying, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Slavery, Violence, dub-con, mention of violence, not sexual, slave!Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violencio/pseuds/Violencio
Summary: His fondness for children didn't quite develop until the first time he changed hands. How should it have? He had been the only babe at his Mummy's house. He has been just over six when he was sold, and went from the large estate to a tiny, semi-central flat with a balcony, the whole apartment no bigger than the Lestrades' dining hall has been. His new owners said they had two other boys when they had picked him up, and Greg had made quite large eyes when he counted five instead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of backstory for a roleplay variant of Greg, spiked by the best Mycroft in the world's/my RP partner's curiosity why my Greg was so careful around children. It's a bit longer than I wanted it to be in the RP answer itself, to keep the plot and action concise, but I really needed to get this piece of world building down. Sharing this because I'd love more people to share their AU world/character building pieces. Might continue this a little if there is any interest x

Greg had a brother. He didn't remember him too well, wasn't even really sure if his name was actually Roger or if it was just some memories mixing up. He was older than Gregory, twelve years older at the very least, probably a little bit more, but Greg hasn't started thinking about how much older he had to be until he was long sold from his mother’s arms. His Mummy... She hasn't spoken of Roger much. Greg thought that Mummy didn't like Roger the same way his first Master hasn't liked him. While Roger has been planned for a while, a nice stud having been chosen for Greg's mother, to further his Master's investment, Greg has been... an _accident_. The slave didn't want to think too much about what that actually meant, but he was _fairly_ sure that his father must have been... Well. If not his Master, then one of his Master's brothers. Greg wouldn't know why else his first Master's last name would have still been marked down in his file the second time he had been sold. Maybe his owners had just not bothered to cross it out when they bought him. Greg wasn't even sure if it would still be in his files nowadays... He hasn't seen them since the second time he had been sold, and that was ages ago. 

His fondness for children didn't quite develop until the first time he changed hands. How should it have? He had been the only babe at his Mummy's house, their owner having stopped his little breeding side project good ten years prior, and even most of those boys and girls have been traded and exchanged for profit by then. He has been just over six when he was sold, and went from the large estate, with an own little chamber for his Mummy and himself to a tiny, semi-central flat with a balcony, the whole apartment no bigger than the Lestrades' dining hall has been. His new owners said they had two other boys when they had picked him up, and Greg had made quite large (even if puffy and wet) eyes when he counted five instead. It's been the first slap across the face he received from anyone but his Mummy as well when he pointed that out, but oh well. There were worse hands to be hit by than the hand of a mother, even if it wasn’t his own. Mrs. Finchman’s hand looked far more delicate than his mother’s hand, and still stung so much more…  
It has taken him a while to quite solve the five-boys-problem; Two of the boys were slaves like him, the elder one almost twelve, the younger one a bit over nine. The other three? Free boys. A tiny babe Greg liked the most, a boy his age and one just about to finish elementary school.  
He and the other two boys... They were nannies, playmates, helping hands around the flat, taking care of most of the chores, the oldest one sometimes even being sent off to run for groceries. Greg liked to keep the babe on his lap for as long as he could, cradling it carefully as he fed it and was the first to wake up every night to make sure it was alright whenever it wept. Nobody was pushing him around when he held the baby, nobody was even shouting at him, and it wasn't quite the baby's fault that it was so whiny. For a while, he and the boy his age were doing pretty well together as well. But when he went to school, he seemed to become more and more like his oldest brother, taunting him, seeing how long it would take to make him cry, making sure he got in trouble... The oldest slave boy would often say something, even when the free boys' parents were at home, and while he would get slapped, or kicked, or pushed, it did take most of the focus off of Greg. Not half a year later though, the oldest one was sold, and it would take Greg a few more years to understand why. That night, he just realised how awfully empty the tiny closet was the slave boys shared, if there wasn't a third body trying to fit under the collection of coats and dresses their Mistress owned.

It took almost three more years before Greg finally understood why they had sold the oldest slave. Greg felt a little ashamed not remembering his name now, but… Names changed so often, it wasn’t quite that important. He has been a Greg to his mother and stayed a Greg whenever he thought of himself, with Master Holmes now, he was mostly a Gregory, but sometimes he was a Greg as well, the second time he was sold he had been either a Grey, or a Gregson, or a Greggsy-Weggsy, if he ever got called by his name, but with the Finchmans, he has been Rory. That sounded nicer than Gregory, they had said. Not that old. And Greg has been so little and cute back then… A far nicer fit, they had said. Even if their oldest son would always insist it was a girl’s name. 

The name Greg did remember was Eoin. It had been such a pain to remember how to write his name… Greg still wasn’t sure _why_ you would say Oh-en and write Eoin, but the oldest Finchman son has once decided that it was time for Greg to stop being stupid and learn how to write. It hasn’t worked quite well. They never got through the whole alphabet together, the free boy’s video game ban being lifted before they quite hit the letter _H_ , but he has been given a couple of names to write, and after a while, he got pretty _good_ at writing his name. And Eoin’s. And even little Aaron’s, the little tot that wasn’t quite a babe anymore, but would still sit in Greg’s lap when he could. 

There is not much else to say than that Greg’s owners were not quite as excited for him to be wasting time writing and not doing his chores. So Greg stopped, partially due to a broken finger or two. 

Greg remembered how anxious Eoin started getting, and it wasn’t until late one night, with both of them cuddled up in the closet in the corridor, that he would finally say why.  
“It’s his birthday, soon.”, Eoin had murmured, and Greg knew whom he meant. There was no chance of him missing that, the middle child making a huge deal out of his wish list, and his birthday party, and all his friends he’d want to invite – and how Greg wouldn’t even get a piece of cake if there was any left over?  
“So?”, Greg asked softly, shifting a little, ignoring that he was a little bit hungry. The bread has been stale and Mrs. Finchman threw it out before Greg and Eoin had their supper. An honest mistake, Greg was sure, because they received an apple instead, and they never got anything sweet without a reason. Mrs. Finchman feeling guilty was as good of a reason as any. But even the sweetness of a fruit was not quite making up the void two slices of toast with butter and maybe some cream cheese could fill.  
“If he turns nine, I should be twelve soon.”, Eoin whispered, as if it was a secret, before dropping the topic for the night, just pushing Greg off when he edged closer in a try to get him to talk a bit more. 

It took a couple of more nights before Eoin spoke. When Eoin came here, he might have been a bit younger than Greg was back then. And when Eoin was new, there was another boy, older than the boy, whose name Greg’s forgotten. No couple of months later, he has been sold. 

A day or two before they picked up Greg, the boy told Eoin that… there has still been another boy. Another two, three years older than the boy Eoin has hardly met. Sold not much later after he had arrived, as well…  
And now, Eoin was turning twelve, and he could have sworn he has seen Mr. Finchman leaf through prospects and magazines about upcoming markets, even though they usually landed right in the trash can. 

They were rotating them out. Back then, that was a horrible revelation. Now, it felt almost… sensible. They were a large family with a tiny flat. They certainly didn’t have quite the money to support an adult slave. Thinking back at it, Greg doubted they would even have had the money to feed another boy through puberty, a time where even the most feared owners would agree it was fairly important they got some vitamins, some calcium, just to make sure they wouldn’t collapse dead before they turned twenty. There weren’t many vitamins in bread or rice or pasta or potatoes. Certainly not when they were plain. If Greg wasn’t mistaken, there were even less taxes to be paid for a slave that wasn’t sixteen yet… People were very angry to pay full price for a slave that wasn’t even guaranteed to survive, child mortality being… quite high.  
The space was tricky as well. There was no other area but the little closet they could sleep in, no other place secluded and lockable, and while it was tight for two, three children, there was no chance an adult could stay in there and keep functioning properly. 

So they were rotating them out. They got a new boy every three years and sold the oldest one after a few weeks to show the youngest one the ropes. The Finchmans’ even made a profit on it, selling the just pubescent boys to trainers and handlers which made their money by flipping the property after it was perfectly trained and adjusted for whatever they thought they would be most fit. 

Four days after the birthday party – where Greg did not receive any cake, but did get a square of chocolate and a bandage that evening, with the middle child even being told off that it wasn’t nice to encourage and invite other kids to kick their slave – little Rian was introduced, Mr. Finchman bringing him home with him after work.  
That night, Greg held Eoin tight. He even took his bandage off and stuck it to his ribs instead. Even though it was one of the nice ones. Green, with dinosaurs. It still didn’t make Eoin stop crying, but they weren’t bothered that night to be quiet, Rian sniffling and wailing just as well. Greg was glad that Aaron was out of that age, at least. He wasn’t sure if he could handle three little boys being so deeply hurt that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Will appreciate any feedback x


End file.
